The uninformed, sounding like musical pundits, proclaim his perfect pitch as progressive, flattering sounds fall upon their ears, the chorus replete with promises and lies, but they hear only notes of nirvana. Afraid of judgment, the insecure, crowd together and concur, “What enlightened compositions…don’t you agree?”
Pronouncing anyone who doesn’t sway to the music “tone deaf,” some sing along, “Up the Lazy River,” only to find themselves swimming down the musical stream not ever reaching the treble. The undecided dance back and forth and like hanging chads, never fully committing, but being pulled along with the mob.
The music lovers, all too willing to trade their minds in for unoriginal arrangements, works of discord, repression and dependence, focus on the minor chords and ignore the major. And they call the strung-out strains, masterpieces. Down-beats, like rain, a compelling cadence, cascade down the hill and drown the voters and stragglers in a cacophony of sounds. Don’t blame the Piper. He’s just playing music to their ears.